Pekin Ducks

It was so cool this morning, about 46, I decided to work for a while then run at lunch time. I prefer that because it splits my day. Even at noon it was only 69.

I ran up to Arrowhead Lodge and turned around. On my way back, I heard some wheels slow down beside me and a fellow said through his window, "You live in the big brick house at the corner, right?" I said yes. (It's not really a big house, but people always say that.) 

"We were wondering if you'd like a bunch of ducks? We like watching your animals when we drive by, donkeys, goats. My wife has dementia and is getting worse and it's getting to be too much work for us. They lay a lot of eggs, double yolks, too." 

Well, Karen had been talking about ducks lately (dare I say Peking Duck?), so I was tempted to say yes, but I said, Maybe, let me talk to my wife, she's in charge of our livestock. May I call you? 

"BW's the name, Air Force Retired," he said. "Dial 1700. I'm usually home, but if I'm not, call again because my wife may not remember to pass the message along. They're like our children."

This evening I called about 7 and said we'd like them. "Great, when would you like to pick them up? I've got some appointments tomorrow. The sooner the better." I said how about now. So off we went, with a dozen freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.

They live a mile down the road in a brick house I'd noticed on my runs when their dogs barked from inside a fenced yard. While we talked, he clapped his hands, "Time for bed, time for bed." The ducks came from the corners of the yard and ran into the enclosed space underneath their back porch. 

One by one, Karen and I crawled in to gather them up and put them in a couple crates we'd taken in our pickup. When we counted 8, he said, "There's one more. Let me get a flashlight. He might be behind the dividing wall." I'd noticed a low wall and had looked on the other side but seen no ducks. With a flashlight I saw a white tail wiggling back behind an old wheelbarrow. That duck was smart, not quacking like the others, as silent as a stone. So then we had 9. 

He asked Karen's name and wanted us to come in to meet his wife, so we chatted for a while, looking at pictures of them when they were "young and beautiful," as he put it. He told about some other ducks they had given away. They missed them so much, he visited the buyer and asked if he could buy them back. Nope. How about $25 per duck? Nope. $50? Nope, my daughters love them too much. So last spring he heard some birds chirping in Tractor Supply and said, you've got chicks? Ducks, too, said the clerk. He bought a dozen. One fell out of the box when he gave them to his wife. He accidentally stepped on it. (Boo-hoo.) Two others later got crippled, I forget how, maybe an incident with dogs, so he gave those two to a fellow down in the valley. 

So now we have 9 ducks again, same number as before. I wonder if he'll be tempted again next spring in Tractor Supply. They've nestled down for the night in the house inside the kennel by the garage. Karen says they're Pekin ducks. And we have a couple dozens of duck eggs. Would you like some?

Garden Wind-Up

Our garden lulls at the moment, issuing a few tomatoes, peppers, watermelons, onions, carrots, parsnips, and herbs. Okay, not so bad, it's still offering most of our meals, though not enough at the moment to "put food by." Except -- we planned well this year, and have been eating sweet corn since early July, no slowdown in the corn category. I should be reaping two plantings for freezing or canning. A third is almost ready for picking.

Every year seems to star one vegetable. Last year, I called friends to pick an overwhelming abundance of peas. This year, green beans. 42 canned quarts and about 8 frozen gallons stock the basement. The squash seeds I threw into the mulch pile over in the field are yielding a pile of orange stuff we'll enjoy during the winter months.

I understand why many gardeners let up this time of year. They've worked hard since Spring and now the first frost approaches. I keep planting because I long to avoid a table lacking fresh vegetables. I have trouble calling food "fresh" after it has been shipped 1500 miles from somewhere I've never seen. It's amazing to reach down through the white stuff to pull beets and carrots.

Near the end of July, the fall garden began with green beans (may not make it but worth a try), lettuce, peas, beets, broccoli, kohlrabi. August added more lettuce, beets, spinach, kale, onions (fat chance), peas, rutabaga, carrots. September I've neglected, though my intentions have been good. Too much going on. The greenhouse awaits lettuces, peas, spinach, onions and more.

Now those late-July sugar snap peas are blossoming, a good sign that we may have little pods to harvest in a couple weeks. Sweet potatoes are growing underground, I hope. Last time we checked they were too small, as if most of their energy had gone into greenery. The fall and over-wintering beets have sprouted, while last spring's beets wait to be harvested for wine-making, roasting and canning. A fine stand of spinach has escaped rabbits (so far) and I'm hoping the rain predicted for tonight and tomorrow will coax up the carrots.

"It sounds as if you're winding up, not winding down," says Virginia.

We hope so.

Farm Tour

Now that elk cliff farm has become a destination and no longer occupies the boonies, jellystone resort traffic fills the air like main street usa and eyes wander through farm listings in west virginia where larger farms off the beaten track don't require a heavy pile of gold. Just for fun, mind you (really?), they call like a long beachfront farm in new zealand, a zillion miles from friends and family, a short drive from new acquaintances. 

I think nietzsche talked about happiness being poverty and filth and wretched contentment, while the taoists speak highly of the contented person who can be happy with what appears to be useless, and certain religions suggest that contentment, though a virtue, is not natural to the human heart; it's strange that the same words can be used by different people in varied, seemingly contradictory fashion, with admiration and disgust. Maybe fashion or fad guides feeling.

Complacency, contentment, self-satisfaction, contented cows -- political conventions suggest these are enemies of capitalism, the greener grass engines that drive a growth-oriented economy beloving bootstraps. Picture wrinkled visages in tattered clothes, sitting along a fenceline, frowning, living on years of past labor, or make them young, yawning, collecting welfare or living on parental kindness, or think of someone hoeing at high noon, a grand garden richly ripening, not punching a clock or suited and tied for wall street.

As our bodies change, we dream. Overcoming bias is a furious fight after years of work and hating laziness, settling down gives us the shakes, searching seems more sensible.

"What on earth are you trying to say?" says Virginia.

Duh. How about a burger, french fries and milkshake?

Reunion of Runners

Every few wrinkles, old friends gather. You know how it goes: you haven't changed a bit believe me, my how your chinese wingnut has grown, are you happy with the prius, the old girl has canine dimentia, dad passed the sign test on the third try darn that macular degeneration, the republicans sure had fun with that empty chair, getting to know medicare parts a b c d, and so forth.

This time we ran in the glow of a blue moon, probably not yet as slow as a certain vice presidential candidate who thinks he ran faster (in his dreams, along with the p90x(?), gotta wonder why he thinks self-revisionism is necessary). To run in next year's boston marathon I'd have to qualify at 3:55. Hey, fellow, race you? If you beat me, I'll consider voting for you, maybe, naw, who are you anyway, you and the guvnuh both?

We gathered at 6 am, in hurley park, same name as on that tee shirt my son gave me because he's now bigger than i or it shrunk, and aimed up hospital hill, its air conditioning unit chugging away like the freight trains at elk cliff farm. My left contact fogged up, or maybe it was the humidity, I was already sweating unlike a pig in my large shorts trying to reach my ankle, having mis-packed my overnight bag. One of us, not i, shot ahead, as usual, look at me, no worse for the wear, so we spoke quietly enough to draw him back, finally we ran together so we could talk, the competitiveness of youth dispatched by longing to belong.

The darkness, feeble memory, or the air hanging thickly moist (sister mary, love that) lost me for moments, remembering fifty years ago when my mother loaded the car with kids for sunday drives and asked us to try to disorient her, turn left, now right, right, left, straight, am i lost yet, and she drove straight home. The 7th street extension, hawkinstown road (with the gold medallion home of which the mother of an acquaintance was so proud), polo drive, and all the once familiar street names returned as we wandered through each others' lives and those reminded by things we passed, silently hoping it will be another ten or better yet twenty before we recite obituaries.

Along the greenway a pack of four or five thirty-somethings streamed toward us and for a moment they carried us back to six-thirty miles, dreams of sub-three-hour marathons, and children in elementary schools. Topping hospital hill, we leaned downward, waiting to see if anyone would pick up the pace as we might have back then, holding steady to show we had finally matured, which we had. High five, guys, another memorable 10-mile run.

"It sounds as if you covered some ground," says Virginia.

In more ways than one, yes.

Lunch at Elk Cliff Farm

Here's today's lunch:

"All local?" says Virginia.

All very local, all Elk Cliff Farm: cucumber, sweet corn, green beans, tomato, Edam goat cheese, and watermelon.

"Did you eat all of it?" says Virginia.

Burp.

Lumber and Salamanders

Timber Ridge might have made me cry this morning, had I been feeling tender. Loggers have decimated several spots along one of my favorite running trails. Carcasses were lying in rows on hillsides, waiting to be hauled up to the road by the chains of metal monsters. A four-foot diameter trunk caught my eye, an old, old friend already carted off.

I know the mountain will repair itself, not in my lifetime, maybe my son's. Some day he or his son or daughter might run up 'air and spot a rotten trunk surrounded by towering poplars, and wonder if that's the trunk I mentioned today....on a blog forgotten among centillions of bits and bytes overloading recorded history.

Less than a hundred yards away, I spotted an Eastern newt, its red spots and orange body broadcasting its presence among the logging road's gravel and weeds. Its stillness worried me, so I tapped its tail. It wiggled an inch or so and settled. When we first began visiting this area in 1998, we found hundreds of these wondering the wet woods. Today's gray sprinkling brought them out again.

"How many did you see?" says Virginia.

At least a half dozen.

Listening

When we had a new fence built around our field last year, we placed it twenty feet inside the existing perimeter fence. This left a run -- for dogs and me or just me, some blueberry bushes and other edible landscaping, and maybe, some day, a donkey cart. That day is near.

A large horse trailer on a truck's flat bed passed us as we returned from Strasburg last night. An antique horse/donkey cart rested on our pickup. I almost wanted traffic to stop so we could take a picture of them and us. An hour later we parked outside Zynodoa, our favorite restaurant in Staunton, maybe anywhere, and when we finished eating, we were pleased to find the cart still there.

Wendell Berry suggests that when you find a new place to live, you don't rush out and change things. Don't build a barn, don't tear down a fence, don't dig a pond, until you've walked the property for a year or two and listened to what it has to say. We've been listening to our field. We're still listening. The fence suits us and we think the field, too. We also built a run-in shed for our mammoth donkeys. It suits us, as do the donkeys and, so far, the pigs who live a hundred yards north. So far, we think the field is happy, too.

Joel Salatin recommends temporary shelters and movable fences, except for perimeter fencing. We read this after we put in the donkey barn and the fence that divides the field in two. We don't regret the little shed or the median fence. He would also criticize the well we installed, rather than a retention pond. Perhaps we'll do a pond some day. We're also considering how to implement his rotational grazing. In the meantime, we'll follow his other advice: "It's okay to do something badly the first time."

"It's good you haven't built an expensive barn," says Virginia.

Yes. The field hasn't said anything about that, yet.

Playing in Sand

Think of a pile of sand. Now, drop a single grain of sand on the pile, another, and another. Eventually, an avalanche will occur. I understand that studies (Bak, Tang, Weisenfeld) have shown that it is impossible to predict when the avalanche will occur, and the size of the next one. Folks have applied this thinking to other things than sand, such as falling empires (think Arab Spring) and financial crises (consider 2008).

When someone asks me what caused our current financial crisis, as if I know anything about this, I wonder where to begin. The instability of the entire system might be a good start. We've managed to do very little about this in 4 years. Or I could begin to list reasons, like grains of sand, and within a few minutes our eyes glaze over.

Why even ask the question? Well, as with anything, we like to know the answer, or at least we like to think we know the answer. Having an answer makes us feel good, or at least, better. Having our answer challenged, even if we realize it's garbage, can throw us into convulsions. There's more to it. To improve our plight, we'd like to learn from our mistakes. Unfortunately, we tend to get tied up in knots when several hundred legislators have to agree on how we implement our solutions.

In a similar transfer of knowledge among disciplines, Xavier Le Pichon, a geophysicist, transmutes his knowledge of plate tectonics to human behavior. As a scientist, he observed that weaknesses, imperfections and faults facilitate the evolution of a system. A system that is too perfect is too rigid and can evolve only through revolution, a major commotion. Weak and imperfect systems often evolve more gradually, without revolution. He gives life as an example of a weak system, which evolves based on coding errors during the duplication of genetic information. He suggests that these things are also true of our societies. He says: "[A] society that separates the producers from the others considered as dead weight, even as marginal or excluded individuals, is a hard society, characterized by conflicts and often by complete rejection of minorities. It is sad and pessimistic. On the contrary a society where all are well integrated has a much more adaptable structure, with a different, easier and more conciliatory mode of life. It is often happier and more optimistic." Voila! Another explanation for the Arab Spring.

He adds:

"A society, which is composed exclusively of uniform individuals, without any heterogeneity, is a more rigid, harder society. I have experienced such communities when living on oceanographic vessels, which I have done for a good part of my life. Most of the time, we only had young and middle aged men on board: the crew then formed a community, which was rather rough. The presence of a single woman oceanographer was often sufficient to completely change the atmosphere.

"When examining any system, it is thus necessary to study it as a whole. Its working is determined by the interaction of all the parts. The elimination of parts that may appear as less efficient may significantly change the overall functioning and may actually completely prevent it from working!"

"Maybe you should get involved in some more committees?" says Virginia.

Hmmm, those people who insist on interminable discussions may actually help committees get their work done. Could Congress succeed if it, as an organization, really put its mind to it?

Subversives

No dog days of summer lately, we've been getting regular rains and evenings that beg for light jackets. Some varmint's been tasting my corn, so today I gathered a bushel of ears and put up 13 meals of frozen corn. I may have to order some Solar Night Guards or sprinkle hot pepper on the silks. What is this with hot pepper? Pepper spray for bears, too? Do we know other animals don't like the taste of that hot stuff or are we personifying or anthropomorphizing?

I used to Jamesify all the time, then as I grew older, admittedly a serious case of arrested development, I gradually did less and less of it and sometimes even asked people what they thought. It's fascinating to imagine the different impressions other people might have of the same experience, although in real life I'm often wary of the words "you've got to taste this" or when I like something very much and choose to share it with someone else, fearful that a little mind reading, in either case, might uncover, "What's with this weirdo?"

One thing good about this blog is that it ensures I will never become a politician. Can you imagine me explaining some of my stuff, or Virginia's, during an interview with an astute reporter? Perhaps one could justify it by explaining what a blog is -- an opportunity to express thoughts in motion rather than well-considered philosophies. On the other hand, I usually have the luxury of recognizing my Akinisms (as in Todd, the gadfly (an overly kind characterization, I know) from Missouri who probably thinks he could get a woman pregnant by kissing her, that is, if she let her pucker down) before I let them loose in the atmosphere, unlike a politician who must keep a constant eye open for microphones and tattletales.

Virginia whispered in my ear, "Did you know that a home garden is subversive?"

I nodded, the thought had occurred to me, which is one reason I didn't object when Karen unplugged the television last winter and disconnected the satellite. Actually, I thought DVR might be subversive, too, because it enabled us to escape commercials. After all, our society depends on the not so subliminal messages of billboards, advertisements, bar codes and packaging materials. Find a politician who does not think, or at least say, consumer spending is necessary to revive our economy and you will have spotted a true subversive. Even a leaner most likely pushes "smart spending," maybe using Consumer Reports or "sustainability" criteria, as essential to get us "back on track," as if we ever were on track to anything but spiraling self-destruction. An eternal optimist (can you believe that?), I wonder if our trajectory will take us to the brink of the precipice where, in the nick of time, we will have to stop and completely re-tool because no alternative remains. Stop, look and listen. Does anyone still read Sally, Dick and Jane? So I garden.

Spoiled

What's wrong with us? Sometimes we behave like spoiled brats. I can't imagine lasting long as a bed and breakfast host. The first time someone criticized a spider web, the hornets buzzing around a chandelier, the California queen bed, or a double-yolked egg, I'd open my mouth and then take a walk to remove the road sign.

We stayed in a very fine home while visiting our son at the Outer Banks. We liked it for many reasons. It was next to a coastal reserve, one of 5 remaining Outer Banks maritime forests, as mature as a coastal forest gets, with a wonderful, soft surface for running, walking or biking, and signs explaining the importance of the forest. It offered kayaks, tubes, and bicycles free of charge. It faced the Sound, providing comfortable water to swim in, calm waters for kayaking, shade under the forest canopy, and our own private deck to watch the Sound, read, visit, and dine. The hosts provided a breakfast tray each night, with yoghurt, fresh-baked breads or pastries, fruit, nuts, granola bars, coffee and tea, which allowed me to run as long or as late as I wished and still have breakfast waiting. They also provided a little refrigerator, in case we wanted to keep the yoghurt cool, and they were fun to talk to.

Recent guests didn't like the breakfast tray and ate at McDonald's the next morning. Look, if you come to our B&B, complain about the breakfast, and then eat at McDonald's, I'm going to laugh at you as I laughed at them.

I'll also look down my nose at the couple that parks in the driveway, husband wedded to his cellphone while wife snots, "This isn't acceptable. We only patronize 5-star accommodations. And the television is a joke." They've given away the fact that they're not the sophisticated travelers they claim to be, because they obviously didn't look carefully at our website. We might give them the benefit of the doubt and assume his secretary, administrative assistant, or travel agent goofed, but for their failure to specifically request an 18-foot boob tube so they could enjoy vacating like they do at home. "I'm the CEO of XYZ Corp.," says he, "and we only stay at the best places." I presume he won't miss the 4 nights of charges already billed to his credit card, which won't be adjusted because we turned away several halfway decent guests. Or maybe he will, mister critically (C) empty (E) oaf (O).

"You're right," says Virginia. "You wouldn't make a good B&B host."

Beach Posting

Virginia writes:

“Midst 10-bedroom houses full of vacationers who for one week of the year don’t seem to mind paying twice the price of things close to home and trying what they rarely do at home, yesterday I passed a panting man muttering a mantra as he jogged through mist rising from hot asphalt after an afternoon thunderstorm, “I will do this at home, I will do this at home….” His red face grinned when he realized I’d heard him, “Said the same thing on New Year’s.” Funny how being South brings out the friendlies, compared to a buddy’s experience in Grand Rapids, where he groused just last week that women never respond when he greets them on a running trail. We were only two bites into buttermilk pancakes this morning when folks at the next table commented on my tee shirt and we began sharing stories; maybe they’re already missing familiar faces from home. We’ll probably run into them again soon, as usually happens on holidays like these. I remember you recounting a stay at the Wilderness Lodge near Lake Moeraki, meeting Bob and Deborah during a nature hike, and then two days later noticing the same Bob’s face as you ran through a park in Christ Church, ‘Bob’ you said, looking over your shoulder as he turned saying, ‘James,’ and so you ran together awhile.

“Drops interrupted an hour on a beach and in cold surf near the Currituck Lighthouse, then thunder, and we watched a thousand bathers rush over the dunes to shelter. Not convinced of a direct hit, we walked north, our backs to the storm like a child facing inland because he’s afraid of waves. A flash, 17 seconds, thunder, another flash 12 seconds, thunder, found us hiding under a boardwalk, singing like Bette Midler until the storm passed and large drips found their way through cracks in the pine. We threaded our way through abandoned chairs, coolers and beach towels to retrieve our own wet unbelongings.

“When they called and suggested meeting somewhere, and I mentioned the Outer Banks, it took a little coaxing to get my New York friends to try unfamiliar territory. Benny handed a picture of his namesake Ben Franklin to our Wild Horse Adventure Tour guide this morning, so I figure at least one of them is having a good time even after complaining about landing hard after the Jeep left the ground momentarily. He had whispered “I hope we get our money back” when he read the guarantee that we’d see at least one wild horse. We saw twenty-two, including three colts. Benny, from a dirt-poor childhood, now commands five-digits per opera performance. We have fun filling the living room of our rental house with voices each evening. The neighbors may not like it, but so far they haven’t complained.”

I’m glad Virginia’s having a good time at the beach. She hardly ever leaves the Valley.

Brain Worms

A further counsel bear in mind: 

If that thy roof be made of glass, 

It shows small wit to pick up stones 

To pelt the people as they pass.

Don Quixote 1605 (by Miguel de Cervantes)

Criticism can live in a mind like a worm. Sometimes I try to squish it with another kind of brain worm, a tune that won't leave. You know what those are like, maybe some jingle or popular song that repeats itself all afternoon. I've heard of people that suffered for days. I haven't had that problem, but sometimes a brain worm simply accompanies criticism for a long while, or the critic wins out and I must take another approach. Om. Om.

As my wrinkles deepen, I try harder (yes, often fruitlessly, some of you know) to keep the criticism locked up, unsaid. Keeping quiet is hardest in the face of someone else's inability to do the same.

My membership in several environmental organizations brought me the bantering among letters to the editor. Folks of the same flock criticizing each other for not living the talk reminds me of glass houses. Sell that old Volvo; it's a gas guzzler. Does it make sense to junk it in a landfill and buy another car? And by the way, you in your hybrid, couldn't you bike to work? Or walk, then you wouldn't have to buy tires and repair brakes? Or work out of your home? And grow your own food so you don't have to shop every week? It's endless.

I've heard that if it's worth doing it's worth doing badly the first time. We're trying here at Elk Cliff Farm. Some things we don't do so well. I like to think we do them better the next time. When animals die, we cry (it's part of life, some people like to say). Over all, I think we do a better job than the factories that raised the animals we used to eat when we bought meat at grocery stores. I'll half-bite my tongue and not ask whether you've found an alternative source, too.

"Unfair," says Virginia. "I thought you weren't going to criticize."

I guess it's all in the mind, you know.

Feeling Corny

Several of our chickens have discovered our corn. Lucky chickens. Not only do they get to freely wander in the rain and sunshine, they can gorge themselves on things they like -- for a while. Their counterparts in CAFOs (concentrated animal feeding operations), the homes of most of the animals Americans eat, exist on the floor of a warehouse filled with up to 40,000 other chickens. They might finally get to see daylight on their final day, when being trucked to the slaughterhouse, but then who needs a range to tour if you can't walk because you've been bred for your breasts, not your legs? Those breasts put the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue to shame. In 1920, it took the birds 16 weeks to reach 2.2 pounds. Now, they can reach 5 pounds after only 7 weeks.

Any egg eaters thinking about congratulating themselves for not eating meat might want to reconsider. Egg-laying chickens find their homes in 12" by 18" battery cages, which they share with up to 5 other layers, stacked in a large house that may hold more than 80,000 birds. What a delight!

No windows? Well, there might be windows on the neighbors' houses, but they stay closed most of the time. All those chickens stink.

Chickens are enough for today, except did you know that in 2002, two Iowa counties had more than 800,000 pigs? In February 2012, the governor of Montana was trying to entice Chinese investors to open a pig plant in Shelby that would house over 800,000 hogs. A feeding operation with 800,000 pigs would generate over 1.6 million TONS of waste per year? That's 1 1/2 times the annual sanitary waste of the City of Philadelphia. Now that's a factory, not a farm.

How do we feed the world without doing things this way? Joel Salatin tells how, in his fascinating book, The Sheer Ecstacy of Being a Lunatic Farmer. 

"Isn't he the guy who says true American heroes don't go overseas to empire or nation build; they stay home, farm, and fuss with government workers who enforce regulations inspired and lobbied by the military-industrial complex?" says Virginia.

Maybe so.

Swallowing

As the candidates for president pluck each other’s words out of context and ignore the issues this country needs to face, I pick gobs of green beans and wonder how to squeeze more than 1% out of an investment. I know I should forget about the investment and focus on things that matter, such as relationships at home and in the nearby community, and green beans.

Hidden inside those little green things are tiny communities we ignore as we munch, as if it’s possible to be a vegan or vegetarian. We tend to overlook the things we’d rather not face, such as hugging our pets while eating animals bred and raised in hideous conditions -- or vegetables gathered by machines that squish baby deer and rabbits -- distributed and cooked as if they were industrial parts. Few of us take the time to nurture them, “harvest” them as humanely as we know how (as if we have any idea what it means to be raised for consumption and what it feels like to be terminated), and cook them with the tenderness they deserve, choosing instead industrial food from grocery freezers that can be zapped and eaten in less than 5 minutes, without taste and without tasting.

Meanwhile, the “bugs” that have resided in human stomachs for thousands of generations wonder what’s coming, something that doesn’t look at all like the food our ancestors ate and contains molecules, nay poisons, developed by firms that had to figure out what to make when the government no longer needed the bombs their founders designed (fertilizers and pesticides, bombs, same basic ingredients). Serfs to agricultural conglomerates buy expensive tractors that drive themselves with GPS systems so no one has to come close to the food parts that will be mixed without regard for nutrition and the tastes our grandparents enjoyed, no touchy, feely behavior, only meaningless platitudes, about caring for the land, water, air and future generations. We marched in the 1960s; that was then, this is now we give a few bucks to the Nature Conservancy and say we’ve done our share, let’s drive our grand-kids to McDonalds instead of cook them a fine dinner at home and nibble around a table while discussing matters of moment before playing a game of Scrabble.

“Hold on,” says Virginia. “I think you may have managed to alienate almost every reader.”

At least I stayed away from religion, didn’t I (for the most part)?

It's a Hard-Knock Life

An acquaintance recently commented, "Well, his life hasn't been as hard as mine."

"How presumptuous!" says Virginia.

This set me thinking as I hauled two pickup loads of heavy maple to the woodshed, "windfall" from the derrecho. What makes one life "harder" than another?

Think of the alcoholics who struggle with their life-long illness. I'd bet that's hard, whether managing to "recover" by avoiding drink, or giving into the temptation that may be easy but hard on both the alcoholic and those who choose to live nearby.

Someone who suffers from depression may have a hard life, so does anyone with a catastrophic illness or injury, I would guess. I don't really know. I suppose I could ask.

A person's own trials do not make another's life "easy." If someone chooses to make life "hard," that doesn't make it any less hard. Instead of hauling firewood, I could have sat in a recliner with a mint julep, milkshake or soda. Someone I know could have chosen not to ride the donkey that threw her.

Others could have continued working jobs they disliked. That would be hard. The fact that they chose to move on to a different life doesn't mean they took the easy way out.

Some people might think it's hard to run more than 40 miles per week, create a full-time business, maintain a large garden, teach part-time in a university, and practice an instrument enough to perform now and then. Others might say that's easy; he or she should have chosen one of these things, done it very well, and worked harder to make this world a better place.

"Hard" is in the eye of the beholder, I suspect, which makes it totally irrelevant to anyone else and perhaps meaningless even to the one living the life. My life is hard, my life is easy. That's for me to decide, if I even want to consider the question. Whether my life is hard or easy, I'll take my pick or maybe not....

and keep it to myself. As for yours, it's up to you.

"Easy for you to say," says Virginia. "Make mine hard or no one will care."

She's probably right.

Feeling Chipper?

We harvested a beet this afternoon.

"Wow!" says Virginia. "How did you get it to grow so round?"

Ummm. I said "a beet, not two." It's red mangel, grown for the donkeys and goats.

Here's what it looks like cut in two.

And here are some more still growing.

Rain, rain, beautiful rain. We may have to hunt up a lawnmower, but first I should re-stack our woodshed. Let me show you what the derrecho gave us -- some crabapple:

...pine (for the Pompeii brick oven):

... and maple:

I also need to find a mulcher-chipper or the Lady of the Manor (Virginia, too) will not be pleased.

Dirt

This is a public space. When I read what some people write (and sometimes my own material) I cringe at what the future may bring. In 1984 we feared Big Brother, now we invite him in. A body of law has grown up around "a person's legitimate expectation of privacy." I wonder if we have voluntarily surrendered any expectation, nude pictures almost nothing compared to unloading our innermost thoughts for public consumption.

So I won't mention the possible end of a friendship, one might say two autocrats re-entering orbit after colliding into a double triplet. Or have I already? "Managing People," a Citicorp course pretty much mandatory for managers, pointed out that people under stress tend to revert to child-like behavior. Maybe it wasn't "Managing People," maybe it was a Personalysis session or an article in Psychology Today. And maybe I've been reading too much Woolf, Proust and Joyce. James Joyce.

Nine piglets nibble people. Green beans grow big. Mammoth donkeys must diet. Wire grass worries gloves. Japanese cucumbers jam crisper. Tall parsnips take planning. Sweet corn soon coming.

This week, our visiting niece and her boyfriend seemed to look forward to harvest day, every day this time of year. We gather bowls or buckets and grocery shop in our garden, today's solar power fueling today's and winter's table, goat ice cream for dessert. Thank you, dirt.

Minners, Polecats, Wineberries and Green Beans

A fellow with white hair leans on a walking stick and peers into Hopper Creek. I've met this smiley guy, so I take a break from running. "What are you watching?"

"Minners," says he, "not as many as they used to be. I'd leave my light burning out back to gather bugs, then bring 'em here to feed these guys. I knew exactly where two watersnakes'd be lying, over on the right under a couple rocks. They'd glide out, mouths open [he forms an "O" with his mouth] and swaller a couple minners. They're not here any more. One day, two polecats, biggest I ever seen, were lyin' there belly up [he points to the far bank], with a couple dead babies behind 'em. Now who'd do somethin' like that? They's some mighty crazy people 'round here. I used to fish every single day. Never kep' 'em, threw 'em back. Brook trout. Don't see many any more. There's a pool up thar by the cabin, used to have lots of trout. Haven't been in years. I lived in that brick house next to your'n, married to Frances 25 years. She still lives there, with her mother. She's somethin', about 90 now, still ridin' that mower with an umbrella on it. Duck and me, we used to gather up the road, the one that wanders by the Devil's Marbleyard, and drink home-made moonshine. I had a still back then. And beer. No trouble, just good fun. Another meetin' place was old man Marshall's farm. He had an old black buggy, you know the kind with the top rolls down, he loved that thing. We'd get together Sundays, drink a lil beer, and watch the college girls ride by nice and fancy. [He pretends he's holding reins and posting up and down, up and down.] 'Let's get those horses,' Marshall'd say, he loved that buggy, and we'd go tearin' after. His horse liked pullin' that thing, too. He'd stand up tall, proud-looking, in front of that buggy. I never got a DUI for driving horses. Not that I ain't been in jail. One night down in Fincastle, I called Frances and she got her dad to come for me. When he showed up to bond me, I said 'that's that, I'll never do this again.' Looking at him, I didn't want to ever see him come after me. Not that I haven't been in a couple times for other stuff."

About this time, he ambles over to his pickup. "Well, you have a good day," I say. "You, too," says he.

That was yesterday.

"I guess he didn't find out much about you," says Virginia.

Many blog visitors seem to be interested in two things this time of year -- wineberries and freezing green beans. This is a banner year for wineberries, thick as can be on our mountain. In 4 trips I've picked about 13 gallons, more to come. I made juice with the third picking because a shortage of jelly bags had maxed out Karen's winemaking capacity. She says she wants us many as I can find, so I'll keep picking. For hints on using wineberries, click on "Wineberries" on the right, under Labels. Some day maybe I'll show how to make juice: add water to cover, simmer about 10 minutes, mash, strain through a jelly bag or cheesecloth in a colander (not a flimsy plastic one), add sugar to taste, bring to simmer again, put in jars, then can in a water bath (30 minutes boiling for quarts).

A flag's waving for green beans, too. I've been picking them small, so each time I go out they seem to be making fun of me by ripening faster. I've stir-fried and frozen 6 gallons so far. For instructions on freezing green beans, my most popular blog posting ever, click on "Freezing Vegetables" on the right, under Labels, and go to June 3, 2011, "How to Freeze Green Beans and Sugar Snap Peas."

Happy 90th Birthday

Wanda Suter Pannabecker

(photo courtesy of Mary and Fred Steiner)

"What did she do?" says Virginia. "Win the lottery?"

Almost. She received a lifetime membership to the local senior citizens center. Ten years from now, we'll be celebrating her 100th birthday. In the meantime, all 4 generations are getting together this weekend to cheer her on. Yep, only 4. No 16-year-old moms in this family, yet. In fact some of us waited until almost 40 or later, which can cramp a progenitor's style.

We put together a "short" program that's sort of reminding me of a Krantz music party. Those parties -- catch one if you can -- begin at 4 or 5 and end after midnight. Don't worry; I think we're still under an hour, depending....

Brains and Brawn

Yesterday, after I wrapped up another book update, which is how I bring in the bacon, I pulled on my boots and turned to gardening, which is how I bring in the nonbacon. I had strangled one of my beautiful young apple trees, so it stood in a wasted hole, dry and brittle. The strangling was well-intended. My once-intended, now stuck with me forever, had complained about the tree's leaning like the Tower of Pisa, so I'd roped it straight. It complied, then died. I dug it up, added it to a pile of brush and replaced it with a peach pit. I once liked a peach so much, I planted its pit. There, now, the transplanted pit sits.

Next, I cleaned up the garden bed south of the greenhouse. I had just said that I regretted not planting more carrots to take advantage of the cool weather we've been enjoying. I thought I might get some carrots in before the gray western sky descended. When the hard part was done, I began broadcasting carrot seeds, relaxed in the quiet, calm afternoon. A few raindrops sprinkled.

How many times have I said that one of the secrets to gardening is not taking off when work needs to be done? Some folks have told me they've had a tough time getting their gardens planted this spring because of all the rain. Sorry guys, that's a poor excuse; it hasn't rained every day, or even every week.

"Maybe they had to go to work," says Virginia.

Oh. It's been so long since I punched a clock I forgot about that.

"Fred called, said the boys are outside the fence! I need to leave soon!" Karen interrupted my reverie. Persistent honking drew her to our driveway entrance. A second neighbor was reporting the escape. My cellphone cussed at my pocket, "Now Keri's out!" I tossed the rest of the carrot seeds, ran for the keys to our stationwagon, and tore down the lane and James River Road. Karen had already coaxed the goats back inside the fence and Keri was perched on the front seat of our Camry.

She returned Keri and waved goodbye, off with some women who meet for dinner every couple months. The least my brawn could do with my quiet evening was fix the fence. I gathered a couple sledgehammers, a T-Post with brackets, a length of fence (just in case), a pair of pliers, and rolled my wheelbarrow to the gap. Two hours later, I decided the fence would keep the kiddies in.

The rain had merely dropped. I still had time. After a quick dinner of Elk Cliff peas, toast and cheese, I put in this year's third planting of sweet corn. Then it poured. Perfect timing.

Barn Restaurant

Shake a speare, the ground moves. Some people think we live in the boonies of rural Virginia, not knowing that music plays every corner, with living actors, dancers, authors, poets and artists galore. Drive an hour north and you’ll find a timberframe barn in the midst of historic Staunton where words written in the early seventeenth century echo fifty-two weeks of the year. I vote for Olympiads of art, literature and drama. Let the winners rule the world. Forget wasting it with firepower or raping it with derivatives no one understands.

Attend to top-notch actors in the American Shakespeare Center in Staunton, then dream…of barns of beauty, where folks gather to share the bounty of the land on which they stand. Of evenings of entertainment, simple sophisticated songs by familiar friends. Forsake flawless digital diction for parlor piano, raunchy rambunctious joy.

This morning, Karen introduced the idea of inviting guests to tour the farm and select their dinners. May I suggest…a bursting broccoli head, lean New Zealand rabbit, curly spinach, English peas (go ahead, shell them), a young barred-rock rooster, new potatoes, deep red tomatoes, sweet Silver Queen corn (Serendipity or Kandy Korn if you prefer). For a starter, here’s a spinner, fill it with richly colored lettuces if you please.

No, you won’t have to prepare them. While you wait in the air-conditioned barn, visit a string quartet or listen to a fiddle, banjo, guitar, sitar, balalaika, some other instruments you find hard to name, maybe a singer who sounds strange but familiar. Browse displays for homemade cheeses, produce, and local goodies of the crafty or artsy sort. Or stroll along the creek and river, paddle upstream in a kayak or innertube. Look under rocks for hellgrammites, pet a goat or two. Hop on a donkey, take a spin in a donkey cart.

Then back to the barn for suppertime.

“It sounds idyllic,” says Virginia.

And a lot of work.

Tomato Trellis

A few months ago, a large branch broke off one of our ancient oak trees, landing on our compost heap, my first gardening project after we bought the farm. Today I finally began turning it into firewood...and a tomato trellis. The trellis project got me started and I'm glad it did. It's easy to forget work waiting behind our hundred year old boxwoods, since I abandoned that heap for another.

"It's going to blow over in the first strong wind," says Virginia.

What would I do without her? Back to the drawing board.

Maybe braces in the middle and giant pegs in the ground for each leg will make a difference.

Goodbye, Rosie

Rosie -- April 16, 2001 - May 11, 2012.

Rosie's family said goodbye to her today, after she chose to rest quietly for two days before slipping away to Boxer-heaven or wherever white Boxers go. Rosie was born a North Carolinian, but had no trouble adapting to Virginia when she moved here for the rest of her career. She attended Anderson Avenue Preschool, Arrowhead Lodge Elementary School, Burks Cabin Cottage High School, and completed her undergraduate and graduate studies at Elk Cliff Farm U, where she majored in field management and bird peace studies (with a specialty in ducks).

Rosie is survived by her litter brother Lex; adopted sister Keri; quasi-parents James and Karen; quasi-brother Adam; housemate Yogi; equine africanus asinus Chy, Wilson, Jaz, Willo, and Earle; sus/suidae Roxie; capra aegagrus hircus Cooper, Jimmy, Pessa, Luti, Flower, Poppy, Darla, Tila, Buffalo, Legget, Franklin, Stewey, Felix, Banks, Remy, and Otto; about forty gallus gallus domesticus; nineteen meleagris; and uncountable flora.

"You forgot someone," she says through her tears.

Ah yes, and Virginia.

Pomp and Circumstance

On March 5, 2011, I commented on the weekly reports we had to provide when I worked at Citicorp. The baton has passed. Our son recently mentioned that during his internship this summer, the last requirement for his Bachelor of Science degree, he must provide a weekly report to his supervising professor at Radford University.

We didn't mind standing in the rain for hours last Saturday while he sweltered in a black gown. As 2000 graduates processed, I contemplated that we have two choices: (1) play Pomp and Circumstance over and over again, double bar to double bar; or (2) work at it each time trying to get better and better.

Gardening is like that, everything is like that. Some people do the same thing the same way over and over again, and insist theirs is the only way. Some of them feel threatened when someone else does it differently and succeeds. Let's not.

Back to Pomp and Circumstance. We know this tiny segment of Sir Edward Elgar's larger piece entitled Pomp and Circumstance March No. 1 (for a performance, visit http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=moL4MkJ-aLk -- no, you haven't gone to the wrong URL, keep listening!). On Saturday, I thought I heard someone singing.

Virginia says, as if she doesn't know, "Are there words?"

Yes:

     Land of Hope and Glory, Mother of the Free,
     How shall we extol thee, who are born of thee?
     Wider still and wider shall thy bounds be set;
     God, who made thee mighty, make thee mightier yet,
     God, who made thee mighty, make thee mightier yet.

Today's Harvest

"What's this?" asks Virginia.

"Today's harvest."

"Mushrooms?" she says.

Yep, the brown things that is, Shitake mushrooms, we think, grown on a log inoculated by friends. If you can't trust your friends, who can you trust? Check back tomorrow.

Dime Time

One of the truths I've heard about self-employment is a tendency to work when there's work to be had to the detriment of spare time, which cannot be called "free time" because time is no longer "free" (as if it ever were), all of your time being on your dime. Those who work for others, feel free to disagree and brag about all the hours you put in. I remember that not being able to count on someone else giving me a paycheck of a certain amount every period took some getting used to.

My morning run pointed out the cost of dime time.

Although I didn't run as far as I often do, I was out there longer. First, I ran into SJ walking his dog and we got to talking, about the 22 pistol in his hoodie's pocket, which he was about to pull out when he heard my feet pounding up behind him (had I known that I would have yelled hello SJ earlier), twisting the necks of rabbits destined for pan-fry, building a windmill near a mountain cabin, the increasing affordability of solar power (now at par with the grid in many instances), reading Mother Earth News for 20 years, digging gardens by hand, using Subaru parts to fix a 1952 Ford 8N tractor like the one at yesterday's Effinger Auction (yes I could learn some engineering at our advanced age, both of us being within a year of 60), finding enough manure (for which I offered a solution because I know a guy who will load you up for free), killing wiregrass with agricultural vinegar, using muriatic acid to clean the two-thirds full 5-gallon bucket of copper pennies he found next to the dumpster over near the Natural Bridge (who would abandon so many pennies because they were too dirty to roll?), a wife who's apparently become addicted to online gaming and says she exercises on a treadmill while he walks but probably doesn't (48 years younger than a certain person I know who recently finished something like her 18,000th game of FreeCell and still exercises at least three days a week), the mammoth "jacks" in our field, spaquaponics, and white roof coverings reflecting sunlight to keep houses cooler. 

No sooner had I left SJ than I stopped in the Trading Post parking lot among four fifty- to sixty-something males soaking up the sunlight that had just broken through what's been a dependably gray sky (actually it was the beginning of a clearing that led to a blue-sky afternoon). "Did Karen like her cake?" I asked KC, who we'd seen waiting at the Wal-Mart (oh no, I let that one slip) cake counter yesterday. "Yep, she ate some for breakfast." "Good," I said, "that's what cakes are for, like donuts." "This is the first time I've seen those steel legs stopped," one familiar-looking fellow said through the window of his pickup. I responded, "My Karen suggested a couple days ago that maybe they don't stop enough."

"Is that what you meant by the cost of dime time?" says Virginia.

That's part of it. Hide away working and you'll never hear the compliments of strangers. More important, you'll miss out on life passing outside your window.

Status Report

Monkey off my back (that is, 5 months of heavier book update deadlines than usual) took me to the piano for a couple hours, a disappointing auction, our greenhouse, and the end of Faulkner's Absalom, Absalom, which our book club has been reading this month. The book club is down to two devoted members who read a "classic" each month, "discussing" it via emails as we go. May will be our first foray into science fiction, A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, which I suspect will be an easier read than Faulkner. If that author of some of the longest sentences in English literature were around today, I'd bet certain Confederate flag worshippers would like to aim their muskets at him.

"What about me?" asks Virginia.

No, they wouldn't aim at her. That's not what she means. Poor Virginia, she gets little attention these days, but she's always hanging about. Her turn will come.

While Karen installs an aquaponics system using our hot tub (see http://holesinmyjeans-kpannabecker.blogspot.com/) -- she's always up to something, isn't she? --  I'm trying to fill our greenhouse with life. Over 100 heirloom tomato plants wait for new homes. They are so ready, but I refuse to risk their well-being by transplanting them in this unpredictable spring weather. A frost last week stung my potatoes, although they're bouncing back. My pomegranate grove also took a licking this spring, having leafed during the early Spring fake-out. They're inching back, no pep in their resurrection. Carrots? What a disappointment. Three separate fine starts were nibbled to the ground by, I think, bunny rascals, who also did a number on a thick, even, kohlrabi stand. I may need to hook up our portable electric webbing.

Oh, but we have parsnips! I let them go to seed at the end of last season, then they sprouted in the fall, and now they're thriving all over the place. You won't find me complaining about volunteers like them, arugula, cilantro, lettuce, bok choy, and this year, salsify. Maybe someday my garden will plant itself. With Karen's aquaponics, we might not be pulling weeds, either.

Lexington/Rockbridge Studio Tour: 10 to 5 April 21

When I heard that eleven artists and craftspeople would be opening their studios to the public, I thought a tour sounded like an interesting way to occupy a Saturday. I figured if I got started a little before ten, I'd be back home by 3:30 or 4:00. The brochure promised a 20-mile road trip.

I began on schedule, parking at the Lexington Inn Restaurant and running out to Thorn Hill Farm, where Bill Johnston has his pottery studio, number 11 on the brochure's nice map. I think 20 cars filled his lane. One of his assistants stamped my Studio Lotto Card (visit all 11 and you might win $300).

I viewed his and a guest artist's works, then aimed for number 10, another pottery studio, this one owned by a friend, Lee Taylor. A little road-side emergency, in a pine forest, began a day of crime. Then, I turned onto his road and committed a second.

What to do? By this time, I was sopping wet. I didn't have a towel. I decided, heck with the stupid sign.

Here he is. Darn, I didn't get a full body shot to show the kilt he was wearing, A kilt and a kiln?

Lee had two guest artists at his studio. Here's one. I realize the picture's not so great, but Kitty (Tilson) and I played violins a couple years together in the "Three Little Old Ladies Quartet." She's been making baskets for many years, but she didn't start this bunch until November. She said she began making one a day, then as time passed she got faster and faster. I hope I look that young when I'm over eighty.

Okay, here's how you get home when Buffalo Creek's too high. Check out the swinging bridge!

On the other hand, you've got to feel bad for these guys. They're not going to be grinding any flour until the creek's way up.

Now let me tell you how I cheated. Elizabeth Sauder said I could knock 7 miles off the trip if I ran through the woods instead of traveling the roads. (By the way, I entered this run on "Map My Run" (it's a website for runners), which shows that cutting off 7 still left me with 26 miles.) Forget what the brochure said. Here's the old road through the woods.

"Now why are you including this lousy shot?" says Virginia.

Because the shiny copper roof on that log cabin reminded me of the people who stopped to photograph our new roof several years ago. New copper roofs look like giant jewels.

Soon after that shot was taken, the sky turned gray and began making me even wetter. By Susan Harb's (number 6), I was completely soaked. As I walked into her gallery, she handed me about ten paper towels. Here's Thom checking out her mud brick oven. He has almost finished building a Pompeii brick oven at his place.

About ten 'til five I finally reached Gallery Number 1. As I left, Laurie told her husband, Craig, I ran the thing. "Nice job," he said, thinking she meant I'd been in charge of the Studio Tour. Nice job, whoever you are.

Falling Spring

Our latest clutch of incubated eggs began hatching last night, so we have some real Easter chicks. They're a day earlier than expected, unless we've forgotten how to count to 21. Here are 4 of them, under the lights.

"So what else is new?" asks Virginia.

I thought she'd never ask. Here's a lonely pear, calling for a friend. (You may need to click on the picture to enlarge it to see what I mean.)

How about a peach duet?

A future fuzzy navel?

We have two trees that appear to have grown branches from both the grafted stock and the stock to which the graft was attached. So perhaps this is an apricot.

Here are some Asian pears.

I like this apple blossom.

Spring could as well have been called "Fall" as Autumn, witness these Carolina jasmine petals.

I'd describe the very successful (for us) morel hunt we hiked this afternoon, but I think I'll leave it for Holes in My Jeans. See http://holesinmyjeans-kpannabecker.blogspot.com/.

Spoiled

Coming out of the fog of 4 months of busy writing, I see pink, red and white dogwoods, redbuds, apple blossoms, and a new generation of tent caterpillars. Sometimes I think they've one-upped us, living in tents. How practical and inexpensive! A few humans are as smart, those who've discovered yurts. I'd bet my Mac PowerBook would work very well in a yurt. Our woodstove might become a hero instead of the villain in this house for which it's proved to be under-sized.

Not that we've had much need for our woodstove this winter. Our woodpile was small from the beginning, so I couldn't complain too much about frost-free mornings. About the time I began splitting wood every two or three days, our ancient Old Milwaukee furnace that occupies half of a basement room conked out. We filled the oil tank, expecting the old monster to start up again, but it didn't. Karen quickly ordered a couple infrared heaters, then all of a sudden summer arrived. Now we wonder if the heaters would keep us warm on ten degree nights, not having had a chance to find out.

Fools we are. Not too many generations ago, our foreparents got along just fine under blankets on ten degree nights. Couldn't we? We might find comfort seeing our breath with the sunrise. But no, that's for the poor and the hungry. The rest of us are spoiled brats.

"Let's just say spoiled," says Virginia.

That's right. I drew looks once when I mentioned we'd turned our thermostat up to 62. I felt like a brat.

Nonsense

Do things seem a little whacky? The warmest March in years is nearly over already. Our first two asparagus spears arrived this morning. More slugs live in our garden than ever; they're decimating the brassicas. We hunted morels this afternoon; it's comforting that they seemed to know it's not time yet. Up the mountain, behind our cabin, we found a tree that looked as if a weird beaver, or maybe a bear, had chewed on it, probably a bear. Maybe a human did the job, but why, it would have taken lots of time, crazy? The neighbor of one of my best friends reportedly shot at two step-sons and missed and burned his house down (maybe?). Anyway, the house is a shell. Tonight clouds are blocking what could have been a spectacular view of the moon, Jupiter and Venus. I read somewhere this same sort of conjunction occurred the night the Titanic sank. I used all my letters three times in Scrabble tonight.

I met a timber framer last weekend. Since then, without my mentioning him first, at least four people brought up his name. (Actually I met two; his wife was a timber framer before he was and now teaches piano instead.)

"It's normal," says Virginia.

I didn't say it isn't.

Sprung Spring

My green friends greeted this year's Spring with mixed emotions. They liked the head start, but they weren't sure they could trust me to protect them if the mercury sank precipitously. Of course, I didn't put them at severe risk. Even now, only hardy guys and gals grace my garden. Strawberries, of course:

Beets:

Onions, a gift from Kirsten:

Brassicas (cabbages, broccolis, cauliflowers, and Brussels sprouts):

"Nice spider web," says Virginia.

"I had to look at this picture to learn that my pomegranates are budding. I thought they might be taking too long." (You may have to double-click on the photo to see the buds.)

And look, the grapes are showing signs of life:

Is it Spring, or is it Summer? Believe it or not, this harlequin beetle joined a hundred others in the first squish session of the year. Its last meal was Chinese cabbage.

I've imprisoned some of my peas. If you look closely at the back two-thirds of this bed, you may be able to see rows of the legumes.

"LET ME OUT!"

Procrastination

Today I was accused of not knowing what procrastination is. I guess that's a compliment, although undeserved. Among other examples, I procrastinated until tonight to follow the score for "L'Histoire du Soldat" (Stravinsky) while listening carefully and making notes. Tonight was my last chance before "music camp," which begins tomorrow evening.

Actually, I'd given up because my only recording was hidden away on my Mac PowerBook, which "white-screened" a week ago Monday. As I worked on an important project, my screen suddenly went blue, then white, and from then on, if I could get my computer to turn on, I could work no more than a few seconds before it blanked out again. Fortunately, I had saved my files in off-site virtual storage ("cloud computing," I guess), so I was able to continue working on my old non-Mac.

I procrastinated, wondering who to call. Fortunately, we found a very quick repair service, Lynchburg Computers. We took it on Friday, they called to say it was ready yesterday, and I retrieved it this morning. So I no longer had any excuse. Stravinsky was waiting.

"What's this about music camp?" asks Virginia.

Garth Newel Music Center, near Warm Springs, Virginia, hosts an adult chamber music weekend every Spring. Chamber ensembles get a few days of careful coaching by members of the Garth Newel Piano Quartet (pianist, violinist, violist, cellist). When the Arrowhead Trio went a few years ago I enjoyed getting very personal attention from the pianist because other than him I was the only piano player in town. This year I won't be so lucky.

We end the weekend with a concert on late Sunday morning, followed by a gourmet brunch. You're welcome to attend, although it's a long haul for most of you -- and you might find L'Histoire du Soldat, well, shall we say, an earful.